


Smash Your Head Against The Wall

by JaeNunyah



Category: The Who
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26189167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaeNunyah/pseuds/JaeNunyah
Summary: Ox's words filtered through my dirty mind
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. My Size

**Author's Note:**

> First Entwistle solo album (1971) has the same title as this work, and contains nine tracks. I'm intending to write my tawdry take on every single song.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Think you're the only one who can WRITE?"

"I'm better than B-sides!" John passionately proclaims across empty suite, wishing he'd dared hurl these words directly at Pete's haughty head. "More than thunder-fuckin-fingers, you beaky BASTARD. I've got a bloody brain, too, and right now it's screaming SCREW YOU!"

He stomps toward the desk to take up notebook so he can write down notes of snarly guitar lick Pete refused to consider. ["Stick it on your solo album.", huh? Think I WON'T? Needs words though, and that's your department. Always has been...]

"Ever since I first saw you, I never seem to get you off my mind." he sighs, thoughts drifting down darkened Memory Lane. "When I tried to say hello, you tried to go- I made you stay behind." Heavy hands ball into furious fists "Now you're always hangin' round. You never touch the ground." That's obvious to all, but what's uttered next is a private admission.

"You make me feel so small."

[Why do I let you? You're a genius, okay, but you're not a fucking GOD...are you?] "Wish I was ten feet tall."

He can't help recollecting recent row. "Remember when I lost my cool? Shouted at you, you nearly hit the ceiling. You're trying to make me feel like a fool." Here hits hurting heart of the matter. "Ignoring me, you really hurt my feelings."

[You don't even CARE how I feel anymore, do you? Did you ever?] "Wish I could..." [No, those three syllables aren't strong enough, maybe...] "I'm gonna..." [Yeah! Declaration, not desire.] "...bring you down to my size."

[I could take you if I reallly wanted, and you know it. How would you like ME telling YOU where to stick it for a change? Hell, you'd prob'ly LOVE it, filthy fucker.] "One of these days, I'm gonna make you fall." ["crawl" rhymes, too] Intensely inflaming image of Pete on his knees ignites spark of lust within vengeful kindling, imagining bigheaded bandmate begging.

[What would I do next if you bowed before me?] "Smash your head against the wall!" emerges in aroused growl, although he knows that's not the grievous bodily harm he'd truly prefer to inflict. He's seen Pete naked, even walked in a time or three on him with a woman, but isn't certain whether The Great And Terrible Schnozz has ever been buggered.

[Keith says it hasn't come to...that...between you two, but who knows who else might've bent you over? Think you're so big?] "I'm gonna beat you down to my size!"

Girth increasing inside too-tight trousers, height shrinks by several inches as John kicks off stacked boots while still scribbling, inscribing intense ideation. [Think you're the only one who can WRITE?] "One of these days I'm gonna make you crawl."

[When they like MY solo album better than yours, that'll be the finest, fattest 'Fuck You'. FUCK you, Pete! Fuck you so hard...so hard...] Bitterly frustrated groan precedes thrown thump of pages and pen, newly freed fingers finding and unbuckling constricting belt.

[Think you know everything? Well, I know what you want, you teasing bitch. You'd let me...and even if you DIDN'T...You might be smarter, but I'm stronger.]


	2. Pick Me Up (big chicken)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daltrey looks after intoxicated Ox...

"Gather round the bar, let's have a race!" John issues ringing challenge to remaining patrons. "I want to see how much beer I can pour into my face!"

Nobody in the place except Roger seems interested in playing, quipping dryly as Ox slides brimming pilsner glass before bemused bandmate "This is really more of a job for Keith or Pete."

"FUCK Pete!" is snapped with biting bravado before encouraging toasting gesture. "Bottoms up, Down it goes, sending bubbles up my nose."

Daltrey drinks deeply, debating, daring digging deeper. "What did he do to you?" [Do I really want to know?]

"He ignored me." John's sigh becomes a belch, then a grin. "Well, two can play at THAT game. Tellya li'l secret, Rog..." he leans in conspiratorially, allowing Roger to discern both bloodshot blear and boozy breath. "Guess what?"

[He's shitfaced. Ah, fuck, don't usually have to deal with HIM like this.] "Don't make me guess, mate. You know I'll get it wrong, then you'll laugh at me. Just tell me, okay?"

"You're no fun...'kay, FINE..." John draws himself into lofty (albeit somewhat wobbly) heroic pose, theatrically thumping his chest with fervent fist. "I'm makin' a solo record!"

"Yeah?" Roger chuckles, commiserating "Me, too."

John's reply is a rude scoff noise preceding drunkenly derogatory declaration. "S'not the same thing at ALL...I'm actually gonna WRITE everything myself. S'gonna be BOSS, too, with lotsa horns an' shit. Pete KNOWS I'm just as much a brass man as a bass man...bastard." He casually amends "Maybe I'll put 'My Wife' or 'Heaven And Hell' on it, just to, like, show I WROTE those fuckin' The Who Songs, but I'm not lettin' The Birdman Of Alcatrash touch even ONE NOTE!"

"Hey..." Daltrey defends "Pete's not writing MINE, either."

"No? Who IS, then?" John suddenly appears apologetic. "M'sorry, Rog, that was mean. Duzzin matter, really." He drapes comradely arm around Daltrey's shoulders as clumsy kiss meant for cheek lands amid temple's tousled curls. "What DOES matter is that we CAN, right? Y'know, I'm GLAD it's just you-n-me tonight, cuz with Keith-n-Pete I've always gotta be on the fuckin' lookout for...well, who KNOWS what? You-n-me, Roger, we're the ones who aren't batshit crazy perverts, and...tellya what...sometimes m'not so sure about myself."

"You're the steadiest of us all, Ox." Roger reassures, those words belied by John's sudden staggering slump against the bar. [Not so steady right now...]

"Pick me up and lay me somewhere safe." John beseeches in uncharacteristic plea "Don't stand me up, I'll fall, lean me up against the wall." Heavy head shakes with rueful reel, avowing "I'll never touch the demon drink again...All I'll touch is tea...Alcohol's destroying me."

John's knees unexpectedly buckle while he slurs "All I want to do is sleep." nearly dragging Roger to the floor along with him, arresting attention of last-call clientele. 

"It's okay." Never having beheld The Ox so loaded, Daltrey is trying to convince himself more than curious onlookers. "He's all right." Kneeling down beside fallen friend, imploring "Talk to me, John!" Roger isn't sure what he'll do if he gets no answer.

"Everything is spinning round. Got to get up off the ground. Sorry if I've missed my round." With obvious onerous effort, John fumbles at his pockets, finally finding first his wallet , then his feet. "This one's on me, lads, here's a pound."

"C'mon, Ox, we gotta go home." Roger gently insists, casting anxious glances around at approaching Security staff.

"Take me out and put me in a taxi. Tell the driver where to go, 'cos I don't think I'd know." Entwistle permits Daltrey to lead him out the door into briskly bracing night air, tossing jaunty salutation back into smoky interior. "See you all tomorrow in the bar! I've got to come back, as I've had to leave the car."

*****

"Did I say m'glad it's just us, Rog?"

"Yep, you said that." Daltrey isn't sure how happy HE is to be coping with plastered pal, but he's not actually aggrieved, accepting this as a rare indulgence, indeed. "A few times. Let's get you to bed, okay?"

"I'd never get this hammered around Keith or Pete." Ox drops sloppy leer as he collapses onto rumpled sheets. "Yer safe, though, y'know. YOU know how they can be...even say the WORD 'bed' to either a'them creeps an' it's all silly buggers before y'kin blink...or think. YOU know how Keith gets, right?"

[And how. Does he REALLY want to talk about this now? Not sure I do...] "Yeah, John, I know."

"At least Keith's sweet. Pete fuckin' scares me sometimes when he gets that horny gleam. YOU know, right?"

"Yeah, John, I know." Roger repeats, although he doesn't. [Pete's never come at ME...like that. What would I do if he did?]

Kicking off his shoes, John sits up to strip off shirt before falling back down upon squeaking springs, offering unaffected invitation. "You can stay, if y'want. Even if you crawl in beside me, I won' try no funny business."

Roger finds that he wholeheartedly believes this, and isn't sure if he feels relief or regret as Ox utters final drowsy promise.

"All I want to do is sleep."


	3. What Are We Doing Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tour-bus shenanigans go from bitter to sweet...

[The bus is a-rockin', and not in a fun way. They're at it again...]

"Maybe this time I won't come back!"

"Fuck off, then. Drop dead for all I care. It was YOU who begged for forgiveness last time...or have you forgotten? Perhaps you require remedial replay."

"Good luck trying to replace me in the middle of a tour!"

"We don't fucking NEED you, gormless git. I WROTE the bloody songs, I can jolly well sing them myself. You're nothing but a monkey, carefree capering in cute little vest, banging tambourines together and swinging your...microphone...around to distract brainless boppers off MY dick while I'm trying to actually WORK for a living."

"I'm gonna KILL you, Pete!"

John winces as Roger's piercing shriek hammers his hungover head. [Goddamn, guys, can't a man sleep it off in peace for ONCE?] "Shut UP!" he growls, sliding aside corduroy curtain concealing cushioned cot upon which he reclines, trying to see what crazy crap is going on NOW. Baleful glare instantly shifts to shock, seeing savage scene, and he bounds from bed to the tune of Keith's cheerleading chant.

"Fight, fight, FIGHT!"

Roger has both hands wrapped around Pete's throat, threatening throttle unthwarted by several swift strikes upside his curly head. Townshend viciously kicks Daltrey in the shins, barefoot blows barely buffeting, likely hurting toes more than tibias. Furious features fluctuating from risible red to practically purple, Pete drives determined knee in aim for Roger's crotch, mercifully missing malevolent mark.

[Good thing that didn't connect...he'd be singin' soprano.] "STOP!" John roars, charging into the fray, fully prepared to knock hot heads together if that's what it takes. 

Combatants instantly obey, shoving each other apart as if magnetically repelled. The only sound for four beats is Pete's ragged gasps, broken at last by Keith's saucy snicker.

"Ooh, bad boys, you woke up Daddy. You're gonna get it! Paddle 'em, Daddy, I wanna watch!"

"I swear, Mister Moon, if you call me 'Daddy' one more time, I'll lock you in a closet so you can't watch ANYTHING." John vows, vexed, although weary warning falls on undaunted ears.

"No closet could contain ME!" Little Loon Laughs "Not-so-magic bus doesn't HAVE a door that locks, anyway... anyhow... anywhere."

"It's got windows..." Daltrey darkly remarks "...and you're about to get tossed out of one if you don't shut up."

"YOU shut up, Roger." Ox orders "Leave Keith alone. HE didn't start this shit."

"Neither did AYE!" is attempted defense as Roger stares daggers across narrow aisle toward Pete's smarmy smirk "He said-"

"Nevermind WHAT he said." John decrees "I don't care if he called your mother a whore-"

Pete interrupts, icily insinuating "Now that you mention it..."

"Button your beak, Birdman, or I'll wring your neck myself." John is not fucking around, making everybody else aboard quickly realize they shouldn't be, either. Warily watching Keith's loopy leer, Roger's sulky seethe and Pete's frosty fury all morphing into nearly identical contrite countenances, The Ox's intrepid intervention crumbles into something sadly somber. He slumps down dejectedly atop long, padded bench which is Pete's usual berth, hands hanging helplessly between splayed knees, head lowered and eyes averted in hopes of hiding welling weep.

"I can't go on like this. Turn my back for an hour and you're LITERALLY at each other's throats." He heaves heartsick sigh, asking himself more than chastened comrades "What are we doing here?"

Surprisingly, Pete holds his tongue and offers no smart-mouth response, allowing John to repeat not-quite-rhetorical question, still struggling to hold back tears.

"What are we doing here? Such a long way away from home. We've been away so long..." the words catch in his throat, strangling on swallowed sob.

Keith echoes softly, singing "Away so long..." as he slips to sit beside forlorn friend, cuddling close in affectionate press "...away from home."

"What are we doing here?" John permits Keith's placating presence, but it feels like too little, too late. "In a place where we have no friends? All we can do is sit and cry, let the time drag by and think of home."

"Home..." Roger wistfully warbles, at which John raises swimming sight to behold blond bandmate turn his back on Pete and come over to take a seat near John's other side, leaning harmonizing head upon stalwart shoulder.

"Home." Ox agrees, adding "What a day that will be. The faces of people we love that we'll see." [This is too precious for words...which means Pete is about to laugh or scoff, snidely spoiling sweet scene. Maybe I can make him understand.] "The memories of what we had left will return. The present remains, the past has just burned."

Pete's only answer is an avuncular, approving nod.

[He gets it!] John wraps one arm around Keith and pulls Roger closer with the other, yet has eyes only for Pete during appealing articulation "And there are only 25 days, 6 hours and 10 minutes, and this'll all be 5,000 miles away."

Pete's impressed expression clearly communicates how close Ox's off-the-cuff approximation landed to the exact facts of time and distance separating them from the end of this grueling tour, significantly siphoning sense of separation between band of brothers. 

John manages an amused smile, flicking a glance out eastward window at pale hint of dawn. "Whoops, there goes another day. I'm wishing my life away."

Pete does not thaw so much as melt, crossing the aisle in a single long stride to fold himself onto the floor between John's knees, looking up lovingly, crooning Ox's own question back at him in respectful refrain "So, what are we doing here?"

John and Pete sing the next words together, getting in tune on a song that is just beginning to exist. "Such a long way away from home. We've been away so long..."

"Away so long..." chime in Keith and Roger, all four fellows once more holding heavenly harmony for lingering last line.

"Away from home."

[Home is where you make it...and where you make up.]


	4. What Kind Of People Are They

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to face the music...

"Pete, d'you think we've completely sold out?"

"Of course not. There's still LOTS more the hoi polloi haven't even heard, much less bought, wouldn't you say?" is archly, almost accusingly, answered. "Especially since you're sneaking around in clandestine sessions to prove you can make it on your own."

[Figured he already knew...been waiting for this.] "Oh, don't gimme that!" John snaps defensively "YOU'VE got secret stuff you're never gonna share with us, and WE don't act like you're cheating on the band when you work on it."

"Roger does."

"Yeahwell..." Ox reluctantly agrees, feeling sudden, shameful stab, saying something so snarky behind blond bandmate's back "...that's because he can't, y'know, WRITE." [Time to face the music] "I CAN, though, and you don't let me do it enough."

Looking loftily down his nose, Pete icily imparts "Don't blame ME. Write whatever you please."

"I DO!" emerges louder than intended, and John lowers his voice to carry on "You just don't LISTEN to what I write, and I'm sick of always having to worry it's not good enough for the pristine, perfect records YOU wanna make."

Pete's chilly countenance thaws a few degrees, although voice and posture remain somewhat stiff. "Why haven't you told me this before?"

"Dunno..." John sighs, although he does, and attempts articulate admittance "...maybe 'cause you're always so far above me. You write about such BIG things, and I love being a part of that...truly, I do...what we've got goin' really is magic, mate, but sometimes I wanna talk about the little stuff." Gratified Pete seems to be taking this well, he's able to elaborate "People gotta TRY to understand your high concepts, but I wanna say things they ALREADY understand, maybe can even relate to." He hesitantly hedges "REAL stuff, y'know?"

"Like what?"

"Like this..." Taking a deep breath, John launches into prepared poem while Pete eyes him like a stern schoolmaster evaluating elocution.

"When you're hungry and your stomach's feelin' thin, you find the nearest restaurant and walk right in.  
Says the waiter with a sigh, 'You're not dressed without a tie.' and you bite your lips to keep the swearwords in.  
What kind of people are they?  
They've only got their jobs to do, that's why they've got it in for you.  
Have you ever sat behind a traffic jam when you'd get there quicker if you walked or ran?  
When you finally get out at the front of it, no doubt you'll find a policeman causing chaos with his hands.  
What kind of people are they?  
They've only got their jobs to do, that's why they've got it in for you.  
When you park your car on some deserted street, give the parking meter sixpences to eat.  
When the money's been digested, you'll find you've just invested in the profits of a traffic warden's beat."

Several silent staves elapse before Pete's quiet question. "Is it a lament or a lambast?"

"Y'mean sad or mad? Neither, really." The Ox solemnly regards The Birdman, imparting important information "It's just sayin' I still feel like a regular guy even if I don't exactly have a regular job. I would never ask you to put something so simple on a The Who record, but I think it's worth saying, anyway."

"I will buy every one of your solo albums, old friend..." Pete smiles indulgently "...and I thank you for sharing this taste of your first."


	5. Heaven And Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's blasphemous." [kinda kinky...]

"Watcha doin' holed up in here all alone, Daddy?"

"Don't call me 'Daddy', Keith." Exasperated Ox heaves a frustrated huff while ripping out and crumpling current crippled composition. "I'm TRYING to write, and I THOUGHT I'd have the place to myself today. What the hell are YOU doing here?" He flings wadded writing to bounce off Moonie's midsection.

"Oh, Mum and The Monkey sent me home." Little Loon laughingly lilts, lingering lasciviously, giving rounded rump a saucy waggle in John's direction as bratty bandmate bends to pick up paper projectile. "Writing WHAT? Is it dirty?" Smoothing crinkled sheet, Keith pretends to read in a swoony simper, pulling sappy lines out of aforementioned ass while fluttering flirty eyelashes. "I ache for you, my darling, burning with barely contained passion, throbbing in masturbatory memory of luscious, lubricated labia and tasty, tender titties. When next we meet, I shall shred your lacy knickers with my teeth, then ravish you like a wild beast in heat."

John can't help but chuckle, albeit with an aggrieved eye-roll. "Give me SOME credit. That dippy, drippy shit doesn't even SOUND like anything I'd say."

"Okay, okay, I'll read it right." Keith clears his throat theatrically then delivers the lines in solemn oration. " 'Do you believe in witchcraft, Heaven and Hell, King Kong, reincarnation, fairies at the bottom of the garden, Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs, goblins, ghouls and witches, Things that go bump in the night, telepathy, eternal youth, Mickey Mouse, Father Christmas...' " he trails off, asking after written words run out "Gonna be a new song?"

"Clearly not." John sighs "It's rubbish, that's why I chucked it away. Nobody was SUPPOSED to see it at all, and I'll thank you to forget you did."

"Why? I think it's cute."

"Ugh, not YOU, too!" comes out somewhere between a groan and a growl "Pete practically patted me on the head like a puppy doing a 'cute' trick when I finally faced The Face and admitted I'm goin' solo."

"He's just worried you'll leave us." Keith quietly confides, shocking astounded Ox.

"Did he SAY so?"

"Well, no, but you know I can read Mum like a book."

John grumbles grudgingly "Wish I could."

"I can teach you how." Moonie giggles in intimate insinuation "You gotta stroke him just right, though, and I don't think you wanna."

[Not these days. Would it be worth the effort?] "Fuck that." John pensively protests, peeved "Not gonna risk any appendages to frostbite...need 'em all for thundering, y'know."

"Pete's not cold..." Keith insists, slipping slyly to stand behind John's desk chair, reaching to ripple fond fingers through onyx locks. "...he's super-hot." Next words are warmly whispered into Ox's ear "Don't act like you don't know that. I can read YOU, too, and I've an especially toothsome taste for your naughty bits."

John cannot outright deny this, but neither will he indulge it. "Knock it off, Mister Moon."

"How 'bout YOU knock off for the day? C'mon and play with me, Johnny. You're working too hard." is sweetly beseeched between kindling kisses down the side of John's neck, stirring salacious shiver with tempting proposition. "We'll have any game you want, and I'll even let you win."

"What d'you mean by THAT?" John sternly scolds with mock-threatening tone, turning his head to meet Moonie's lips with his own "You been keeping score?"

"YES!" Keith crows contentedly, convinced he's at last arrested amorous attention, adding flattery to fondle "You're a ten. Top Of The Pops, Papa Bear, and your record will be, too."

"Not if I don't actually WORK on it." [Mmmm...he's working on me...guess bit of a break wouldn't hurt.]

"Why don'cha just reprise one of your brilliant B-sides?"

"What's your favorite?" John finds himself fishing as Keith tugs him eagerly out of the chair and into enticing embrace.

"I believe in 'Heaven And Hell', Johnny Angel." Keith ardently avows, tapping teasingly down the line of buttons from throat to belt buckle, pausing for untucking tug. "I love you in this black shirt. Makes you look like a man of the cloth I can't wait to see...defrocked." Wicked sparkle alights above saucy smile as Moonie pulls away, turning toward abandoned notebook atop writing desk.

John's brow creases in consternation, watching Keith tear off a piece of paper then fold the ragged edge, finally getting delightfully dirty joke as naughty, nimble fingers slip tidy strip beneath the points of his collar. "That's blasphemous." [kinda kinky...]

"Please don't forsake me, Father Entwistle." Keith slowly sinks to his knees and presses palms together as if in prayer, proclaiming "I'm a wretched sinner in desperate need of your righteous guidance."

[Ooh...okay. 'Daddy' gets on my nerves, but I can work with 'Father Entwistle'. Let's see where this goes.] Laying left hand tenderly upon loony lover's head in consecrating caress, John softly sings "On top of the sky is a place where you go if you've done nothing wrong."

"If you've done nothing wrong..." Moonie echoes, playing penitent "Oh, but I HAVE, though, Father. I've polluted my flesh in EVERY way, and my mind is even filthier. I'm having lustful thoughts this very minute, and I fear I may NEVER reform. Whatever shall become of me?"

John strives for priestly gravitas as he intones "Down in the ground is a place where you go if you've been a bad boy.", knowing Keith's eye level lewdly aligns with erect evidence of rising temptation.

"If you've been a bad boy..." Keith agrees, standing up and unclasping his own hands to take hold of John's as it slips from his hair, pressing against rampant readiness. "Feel how bad I am?"

[God, yes...I'm no better, but he's treating me like I am. How does he know what I need before I realize it myself?] Leaning down to lay light lips upon bowed brow, Ox offers semblance of salvation. "Why can't we have eternal life and never die?"

"And never die?" Guileless eyes evoke luscious chocolate kisses, stunning sweetness John can almost taste while savoring rapt reverence. "Is there another way to see Heaven, Father? Can you take me there?" Keith quivers deliciously under soft stroke shifting to firm grip.

[Sure wanna try...he's so irresistible... If we're going to Hell for this, it's worth it.] "In the place up above you grow feather wings and you flap round and round with a harp singing hymns." John finds it difficult to stay on key while working the buttons of Keith's trousers, voice cracking with lust to hear heated hiss when fingers finally find flesh. "And down in the ground you grow horns..." [He's grown THIS one for me so many times, and I love to play it.] "...and a tail and you carry a fork and you moan and wail." [Just like he's doing now...makes me feel almost immortal.]

"Why can't we have eternal life..." Moonie warbles with wanton writhe "...and never die?"

"On top of the sky is a place where you go if you've done nothing wrong..."

"You've done nothing wrong." Keith's gasping groan gives glorious gratification.

[Must be doing SOMETHING right...] "And down in the ground is a place where you go if you've been a bad boy."

"I've been a bad boy." Moonie moans concupiscent confession, begging benevolent benediction "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Familiarity with favorite friend's ribald rhythms clearly communicating that further torrid touch might torment, Ox allows adoring absolution. "Poor soul..." [won't say 'my son', that'd be TOO weird] "...little lost lamb..." Subsequent syllables sing special shared significance, so John feels certain combining them with swift, slick stroke shall soon surcease sweet suffering. "You are forgiven."

"I love you!" bursts blissfully from Moon's mouth, equally eager ejaculation erupting elsewhere, engulfing Entwistle's dexterous digits in slippery spurts while flooding his mind with pleasure and pride.

"Oh, Keith," he murmurs, easing sated sweetheart slowly southward into awaiting armchair before weakened wobble turns to tumble "Thank you."

"ME? I didn't do anything..." Loving look conveys contentment, yet glitters with prurient promise "...but I'm prepared to make any offering you might desire. You showed me Heaven..." is playfully purred "...saved me from Hell..." Little Loon lounges languidly, licking leering lips "Won't you take tithe, Father Entwistle, and fill me with your holy spirit?"

[This is so fucking sacrilegious...still seems somehow sacred...Pete would laugh himself silly...well, to Hell with him. I absolutely WILL use this song on my own album. It's MINE, after all, and now keeps sexy secret of clandestine communion.] "Let it be so, thou impious imp." John strips off his belt, casting leather length to the floor like a vanquished serpent before parting the teeth of strained zipper, exposing stiffened staff to greedy gaze. "You may now partake of my body."


	6. Ted End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rest in peace, Teddy."

Shrill telephone bell jolts John jarringly from slumber. Groggy glance at illuminated clock face across gloom of the room reveals it's not so obscene an hour as to justify surly snap, so he picks up with grudgingly grumbled "G'morning." (rather than aggrieved "Whatta y'want?"), although he's still somewhat vexed to have his rest interrupted.

"Old Teddy Greenstreets passed away." Dire declaration drifts dolorously down the line. "They buried him on Saturday."

[Who?] Recognizing the voice, but not the man of whom it speaks, Ox offers only "Sorry to hear that." as he sits up and fumbles for matchbox atop bedside table. Scratching single sulphur-tipped stick alight, he touches fire to stub of candle and watches wick catch. 

"It was a lovely way to go. In his sleep, didn't know a thing."

This strikes as strangely reassuring, even if John hasn't a clue why he should care. He hedges pacifying platitude, unwilling to admit he can't connect the name 'Greenstreets' to any face he recollects. "At least he didn't suffer."

"His wife couldn't go. Her second husband took her uptown to a show."

[Wasn't OUR show, was it? No, we played DOWNtown last Saturday.] "That's too bad."

Ox's old associate sounds somewhat sanctimonious, saying "His sons and daughters emigrated, said it cost too much to travel home. Sent a wreath and a sheath."

"Sounds so sad." John sighs sympathetically, starting to feel like a real heel that he has no idea who they're talking about but can't bring himself to ask.

"Isn't it a shame that no one came? The funeral was quiet, but all the same..." trails off in morose mope, arousing apologetic affirmation to fill the awkward silence.

"Must've been lonely, mate." Attempt at commiserating comfort covers confusion. "Wish I could've been there for you."

Voice becomes briskly brittle, as if the mind behind it has finally figured out Ox's obfuscation. "He's much better off where he is now."

John is trying to ascertain an appropriate answer to that when his friend spares him the trouble, hanging up without even a cursory farewell. Replacing receiver, he leans over flickering flame to light a cigarette. Igniting then inhaling, he introspectively indexes entire array of acquaintances, satisfying himself he honestly hadn't known the dead man...although ruefully realizing he truly wishes he had.

[Poor bloke. Would have attended if I'd been invited, even if I can't place who the bloody hell he was.]

"Rest in peace, Teddy."


End file.
